


with this ring (debt be paid)

by AnnaofAza



Series: with this ring (debt be paid) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (in a sense that Keith is coerced into it), Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Anal Sex, Coercion, Dark Shiro (Voltron), Forced Marriage, M/M, Possessive Shiro (Voltron), Rape/Non-con Elements, Repaying Debt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Marmora Industries is falling apart. Only Keith can put it back together.But he doesn'texactlyknow that.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: with this ring (debt be paid) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752307
Comments: 31
Kudos: 208





	with this ring (debt be paid)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilovelocust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovelocust/gifts).



> This is for ilovelocust, who gave me free rein of this particular scenario: unwitting and/or blackmail. Or, Keith has to marry someone (aka Shiro) to pay off the family debts, but doesn’t know until the proposal and has to go through with it. 
> 
> Read the warnings; take care of yourself!

Marmora Industries is being courted, now that they’re up for auction.

Prospective buyers come to the factories, to headquarters, even to the house to poke and prod every cent’s worth. The trees with heavy branches Keith used to climb, the dully-polished wood panels in Kolivan’s office, the heavy steel that’s hauled as carefully as glass, the collection of cars parked outside—one built by Kolivan’s own hands. 

Keith does his best to avoid them, choosing to go into town, even though he has nothing to purchase, especially now. He wanders until sundown, when the buyers usually leave for dinner, then sneaks back into the house. Luckily, Kolivan says nothing to him, even though Keith should be beyond hiding, at his age. 

He should be going to university or learning a trade. But with the war—then the recession, then the business crashing down all around them, there hasn’t been time to teach him beyond what he’s picked up. And university had been abandoned a long time ago; Keith had been supplied instead with private tutors, all whom he got rid of eventually with pranks and shouting and good old-fashioned hiding. 

He’d wanted to go to school, but his mother insisted on the safety of four walls, and even an ocean away, Kolivan and the others still deferred to her. Keith’s still not sure what she had been afraid of—the riff-raff? The unwashed masses? The smoke and grime choking the air and streets? Probably, since she apparently had enough money to travel for years on end, far away from this place. 

Some day, Keith vows, he would do the same. But he’s _needed at home_ , a dirge of a prison sentence. And even more, now, to watch the family empire built so carefully through the years crash down. 

Until Kolivan brings him along on his next business trip.

* * *

Keith’s still not sure what this is about. Kolivan had said something about taking notes, but Keith’s done nothing of that sort. 

All he’s done is meet Takashi Shirogane, a buyer beyond all the rest. He’s tall, nearly coming up to Kolivan’s chin, and courtly—dressed in clothes finer than Keith’s ever seen in his life—even stepping forward to press his lips to Keith’s knuckles. Keith startles; he’s not even sure how clean his hands are, but Shirogane doesn’t seem to care. 

Curiously, he had only shaken Kolivan’s hand. Maybe that’s another social function he doesn’t understand. 

The talk quickly turns to business, and Keith pays little attention. But he notices Shirogane staring at him from across the table, even as he speaks to Kolivan. 

It’s easy, then, to stare back. Shirogane has a painful-looking slash across his nose, with gloved hands, his right hand curiously bulkier than the left. He’d been in war, Kolivan had mentioned on the train ride, and took over his family’s business when he came back. 

Kolivan spoke highly of this, being a veteran himself, in a war that’s only spoken about in textbooks, in memorials, in obituaries. _He’ll deal with us honorably,_ he’d said. 

And it seems his sentiment hasn’t changed; he keeps nodding in silent approval, and clasps Shirogane’s hand in a firm shake once their talks are done. “May we see each other again in the future.” 

Shirogane shakes his hand, eyes still locked on Keith. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

A package arrives for him the next morning. 

He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but tears it open anyway. Inside are clothes: a jacket, shirt, and pants, all neatly pressed and gleaming silk, ridged with red embroidery and gleaming silver buttons. There’s no note. 

“Who are these from?” Keith asks, stroking a sleeve absentmindedly. They’re as cool as snake skin, more higher quality than anything he’s had in his life. “Mom?”

Kolivan shakes his head. “A gift. From Mr. Shirogane.” 

Keith drops the sleeve, discomfited. “Why?” 

“We’re going to meet him for dinner this week,” Kolivan says. “At a hotel in the city.” 

That explains it. Mr. Shirogane doesn’t want Keith and Kolivan to embarrass him; the stare had been for the frayed cuffs of his sleeves of the jacket from five winters, the pants that had been patched too many times to count, his chewed fingernails. It rankles him so much that he’s tempted to refuse, but pulls on the clothes all the same when Kolivan looks at him when it’s time to go and tells him to march upstairs and change. 

But when he comes back down, Keith notices Kolivan’s wearing the same outfit from last time: a stiff jacket that needs pressing, trousers without rolled-up hems, clean boots, and Keith scowls, feeling like a child told to scrub behind his ears. 

When they arrive, Shirogane’s eyes pass along his new clothes approvingly. “They suit you.” 

Keith dips his head in an approximation of a nod; he’s not sure how to react. He doesn’t see a sneer, but the “gifts” are enough evidence for him.

And when they sit down, he feels further dread sink into his stomach. There are too many forks, too many glasses, too many unspoken rules; his hands are uncertain, and he feels clumsy, foolish. And there are no prices on the menu, patterned with gold and wispy script—which Keith knows enough to know that means _expensive_. Far more than what Kolivan can afford. 

At first, he only dares to eat the provided bread rolls and sip from his water glass, only to have Shirogane lightly ask if he was feeling well. Keith flushes, dark red, hating that he’s found out so easily before Kolivan looks at him reassuringly, when Shirogane starts confidently rattling off orders to a waiter. 

Throughout dinner, Shirogane asks him to taste this, taste that, is it to his liking? And the wine, is it too strong? And his pallor, it could be better—but the color of the jacket brings out his eyes, makes the contrast of his dark hair and pale skin more striking, doesn’t he think? 

Keith takes small bites, answers in one-syllable words, trying to push the attention off himself. There’s little for him to say; he has no real stake in the business, so maybe that’s why Kolivan invited him—for him to learn on the job.

Kolivan is quieter this time, and it pains Keith. He hopes it’s just the long journey, that Kolivan isn’t too tired. It’s been hard for him, watching his work slip from his hands; he’s been more of a parent to Keith than his own. 

Not that it was his dad’s fault for dying. He was a hero, Kolivan told him. 

But Keith would rather have had him alive.

He picks at his roast, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Keith hears about Shirogane more, piecing together until he thinks he has a picture of him. It’s only an outline, though—not colored in—as accurate as a legend whispered to children at night. 

Shirogane’s family is very old, very traditional, and very dead. He’s the sole survivor—”the luckiest man alive,” he’d said perversely, one evening. The war had been terrible, but he’d rather not talk about it; it wasn’t suitable for polite company, and Keith didn't need to hear such unpleasant things. (Keith forgets when Shirogane had moved to calling him by his Christian name, and no one says a word to correct him.) 

But, Shirogane added, it was difficult to find a life afterwards; he would admit that. So much so that he longed for the little things, the hints of normalcy that he took for granted: certain foods, a roof over his head, companionship. 

At this, he had looked to Keith, smiled, as if beckoning him to agree. Keith’s gaze had fallen to his plate, the white tablecloth, the new patent leather shoes fitted specifically for him. The stitches are machine-made, laces wound in a knot more fitted for a ship in the dockyard than this place, with its air like ether. 

Kolivan looks more and more exhausted after these meetings, and Keith comes to suspect he’s there for moral support. He takes Kolivan’s arm when Shirogane’s gone, letting the man lean on him, and tries his best to be quiet and helpful around the house. Less and less people trickle in; Kolivan must be making a decision soon. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks, setting a cup of tea in front of Kolivan one evening. He knows Kolivan will take a sip or two before pushing it away, but it’s all Keith can think he can do. 

Kolivan pats his shoulder, once, but doesn’t answer.

* * *

“Mr. Shirogane will be asking you something,” Kolivan says when they enter the lobby for yet another dinner.

“What?” Keith asks, half-paying attention. This lobby is dripping with excess, more than the others, with an honest-to-God crystal chandelier and a piano player in the background. The AC’s cranked up ridiculously high, so the marble floor is as chilly as ice underneath his feet. It’s probably like that, he thinks, so everyone can wear their fur coats and gloves in this sticky 90-degree weather. 

If they’re broke, how is Kolivan affording these business luncheons and dinners, with main courses and apretrifs and desserts? Shirogane must be paying for them, of course, and the thought makes his stomach sour. 

“A question,” Kolivan repeats. “ _Keith_.”

Keith tears his gaze away from the piano. “What?” 

Kolivan’s tone is low, and Keith can’t tell whether there’s an apology in it. “He’ll ask you to marry him.” 

_“What?”_

Several patrons turn to stare, and Kolivan steers him away by the arm, positioning them both behind a tall potted palm tree. 

“Quiet,” he hisses. 

“No,” Keith snaps. “What are you saying? Did he _tell_ you?” Something clicks. “You already agreed.” 

Kolivan slowly nods. 

“Then what’s the point of you telling me?” Keith demands. “So I don’t go off and make a scene, because I—” 

“Keith. Before you say no, let me tell you something.” Kolivan directs him to sit down on a nearby chair, and Keith reluctantly plops down, crossing his arms. “I have to consider our futures—yours, especially. The business, the factories, the workers, even the house…” 

He gazes down at the floor, ashamed and tired-looking; for the first time, Keith sees lines of gray on the roots of his hair, the dark smudges underneath his eyes, the aged stiffness of his hands. 

“What did Mom say?” 

Kolivan looks away. “Your mother is still travelling. It’s been difficult to get in touch with her.” 

“So she doesn’t care.” 

Kolivan says nothing again; it’s as good as an answer. Keith looks at his own hands, chapped and nails ragged against the new stiffness of his pants—tailored, fine, paired with a velvet dinner jacket. How could he be so stupid? 

“Do I even have a choice?” 

“You can say yes or no.” 

“But you prefer I say yes.” 

More silence. 

Keith swallows. This is a kindness, on Kolivan’s part, as misguided as it seems. “I don’t know,” he says, so softly that he wonders if he’s said anything at all. 

Kolivan nods. “I understand,” he replies. “Do you want me in there with you?” 

This, Keith’s sure of. “No.” 

“Then I’ll wait out here,” Kolivan says, then looks up. Keith follows his gaze, sees Shirogane stride through the swinging glass doors in what looks like another new suit. 

Kolivan’s hand comes down and squeezes his shoulder, and escorts him out into the lobby. 

Shirogane sees them immediately, smiles, and takes Keith’s elbow in his right hand. “Good evening. Are you joining us, Kolivan?” 

Kolivan makes his excuses, as Keith numbly stares at his shoes. He can feel something harder, less forgiving than flesh, metal-like, tight on his elbow, pressing into bone. Shirogane’s much taller than he is, and much older, if his hair’s anything to go by—and a stranger. How could Kolivan think it’s a good match? 

No, not a match—more like a transaction. 

“Ready?” 

Keith looks at Kolivan. “Yes,” he says faintly. 

Shirogane gives one last nod to Kolivan, and steers him towards the dining room. Already, it’s packed, full of orchestra music and elaborate clothes and the smell of roasted meats and perfume; at least, Keith thinks, he’ll get a good meal out of this. 

Shirogane gives his name to the maître d’, who half-bows and escorts them both through the crowded restaurant. No one turns to stare, but Keith still feels eyes on them, this odd pair. What will they think when— _if—_ they’re married?

“I’m sorry it’s so crowded,” Shirogane says, and Keith forces himself to look up, nod. “But hopefully the room won’t be quite so loud.” 

“The room?” Keith asks, just before the maître d' opens what seems like a hidden door, carved right into the wall. They’re ushered into a windowless space, with just a small, circular dining table and three chairs. The table’s lit by two candles, flames floating in tiny vases filled with water and smooth stones, with a vase containing a single red rose. 

“Is this suitable, sir?” 

Shirogane nods, palms some bills his way, and once they’re alone, pulls out one of the chairs. “Sit,” he says. 

Keith sits. 

The menu in front of him is red leather, with spiraled gold lettering; Keith bets there will be no prices, something that scared him the first time. He remembers, with a wave of embarrassment, of the first dinner—something that should have been another clue. 

“Are you hungry?” Shirogane asks. "The food here is excellent, or so I’ve been told.” He picks up a water glass, smiles. “The owner of this place owes me a favor.” 

What does he say to that? Keith nods again, and to his relief, a waiter comes, introducing himself and asking them if they want something to start. 

Shirogane orders wine and a few appetizers “to taste,” then asks Keith for his opinion. Keith shrugs, quickly shakes his head when Shirogane asks him if he wants anything else, and the waiter half-bows and leaves. 

They’re alone again; Keith wishes he took a few minutes to at least pretend to think about food options. Shirogane’s staring at him, now, the candlelight highlighting the scar above his nose. Where had he gotten that? An accident? A war injury? Would he even be allowed to ask? 

“Mr. Shirogane,” Keith begins.

“Please,” he interrupts, “call me Shiro, like everyone else. Or Takashi.” 

Keith doesn’t see how he can call him _Takashi_ ; it seems too intimate. “Shiro, then,” he says, then pauses. What was he going to say? Something, at least, so they’re not sitting in awkward silence. How long until Shirogane— _Shiro—_ will ask? At dessert? In the middle of dinner? On the way home? Either way, he’ll have to wait. 

“How was your ride here?” he instead asks. 

Shiro smiles. “You know, don’t you?” 

Keith freezes, not sure whether to lie, if it’ll protect Kolivan or not. “I…”

“I expected it,” Shiro says. “I’d want to know beforehand, myself.” 

“Beforehand? So this has happened? Marrying for business dealings?” 

He’s sure he’s gone too far, but Shiro only laughs. “No. This is...an unusual situation.” He reaches for the water glass again, takes a sip. “I was engaged before, but it ended—not ideally. I thought I’d stay away from those affairs, until you.” 

“Me?” 

Shiro takes Keith’s hands in his. “I think we can be happy, you and I. Don’t you think?” 

He sees Kolivan in his mind’s eye, stooped and gray-haired, the desperate way he’d squeezed his shoulder. His family. And so many people—how could he sacrifice them all? 

“Yes,” he says. 

It doesn’t occur to him later it’s the first lie he’s told.

* * *

Keith sees the relief on Kolivan’s face when they exit the dining room, palpable in his crushing embrace. The ring’s too big; Keith has to clench his fist to keep it from sliding down, which Shiro said would be fixed by the wedding. 

_The wedding._

There’s a lot to take care of that Keith barely knows, but it’ll be handled, Shiro had assured him. He didn’t have to worry, and neither did Kolivan, he’d added, with a smile thrown in for good measure. 

Until then, Keith only had to sit tight and wait. 

Which isn’t exactly true—he still needs to be involved to some degree, as if his opinion actually matters. (Something dark blue, Shiro had suggested during one of the meetings, for Keith’s eyes. He’d traced a gloved hand over Keith’s cheek, and the touch had lingered for hours. Keith had scrubbed it raw with a washcloth, later.) But Keith doesn’t see how choosing napkin patterns or hors d'oeuvres makes a difference in his life, and spends what time he can in town and at one of Marmora's factories, losing himself in machinery, in things that can be fixed with just a few moments and the right tools. 

He could try to escape, but there are guards, with long jackets and concealed firearms now on the property, circling like vultures. And with Shiro’s reach on the city, it wouldn’t take long to track him down. 

But those aren’t necessary. He has a duty, and he made a promise; those are enough to keep him from running.

* * *

Keith dreams of the fire, of the smoke that’s given him a cough he’ll have for the rest of his life. Screaming, throat raw, for his dad. His mom had been gone by then—not that she could have saved him, but maybe, Keith had thought bitterly more than once. 

Kolivan had pressed his tearful face into his jacket, one of the buttons pressing into his cheek. But Keith had not pulled away, only wept. 

This time, though, Shiro’s the one holding him, his metal hand cupped around the back of his neck like a vice. _Hush,_ he tells Keith, as the flames rise higher, licking at his flesh greedily. Keith struggles against his grip, sobbing, thrashing, but a hand claps over his mouth like a slap. _Hush._

He wakes up, cheeks wet, eyelashes sticky, and tries to breathe.

* * *

The wedding is quick, and Keith later finds he can’t remember a thing. There was an altar, photographs, and champagne, though Keith can’t remember drinking any. There were also a few men and women in arrays of formal attire, juxtaposed with Kolivan and the rest, looking embarrassingly shabby next to them. No one had smiled. 

Except for Shiro. 

It was a quiet, almost satisfied one, to be sure, but there it was. During the ceremony, where Shiro tilted his face up with one gloved hand and kissed him, almost chastely, with dry lips. During the banquet, where there were no tearful speeches or funny toasts, but where Shiro fed him bits from his own plate, Keith obediently opening his mouth but not tasting anything. During the goodbyes, where rice was thrown into the air, where Kolivan was nowhere to be seen, where Shiro stood on the steps—which steps? Where were they?—and hooked an arm around Keith’s waist. 

And during the ride to what’s surely their honeymoon destination, one arm stretched not quite around Keith’s shoulders, but on the headrest of the wide expanse of a backseat. This close, Keith can smell the cologne, musky like freshly-brewed strong tea, and see that his husband’s— _husband’s—_ eyes are the same gray as the fog winding over the city. His hands are gloved, but Keith remembers the touch of the metal prosthetic, wonders if it’ll be cold on his bare skin. 

He shivers at the thought. 

“Did you like the ceremony?” Shiro asks, but his eyes are on the driver, as if this is something he needs to get out of the way. 

_No,_ Keith thinks, but knows better. 

“It was nice,” he says, not quite answering the question. 

“Good,” Shiro says, luckily not realizing—or choosing not to—notice, but the relief Keith feels stops in his throat when Shiro, still not looking at him, glides his left hand onto Keith’s knee. “You looked…” 

Keith tenses when the hand travels further, fingers just skimming the inside of his thigh. Shiro’s fingertips pause, then tap a few times, through the fabric of his pants, as if in thought. 

He flinches. Shiro looks at him, almost surprised, and Keith panics. 

“The _driver_ ,” he protests. “He can…”

“Oh?” Shiro leans over, presses a button, and with a soft click and whir, a partition slides up, so dark that even the driver's silhouette isn’t visible. “Much better now, don’t you think?” 

But Keith still knows he’s _there,_ probably listening with his ears perked. Maybe he’ll tell his co-workers later, all hush-hush, for your ears only, how his boss couldn’t wait to get the honeymoon started, or worse, that Takashi Shirogane’s newest husband was so _desperate_ that he simply had to take care of him. 

Keith’s forgotten about the other hand, and only remembers when it slowly slides up his neck, winding his fingers in Keith’s hair with a gentle tug on his roots. Shiro’s hand cradles the back of Keith’s neck, for a few seconds, then tilts Keith’s head back. 

Lips press against his own, seemingly patient but _wanting,_ slowly coaxing Keith’s mouth open until he’s surrendering, Shiro’s tongue slipping between his lips. It tastes him, exploring, hand on his thigh clenching so hard that Keith can feel nails through the fabric; he whimpers slightly in sharp pain, but Shiro seems to take it as encouragement, pressing him closer, opening his mouth wider. 

Shiro’s left hand slides to Keith’s jawbone, taking his chin between finger and thumb, before pulling away with the slightest hint of teeth. “You’re all skin and bones,” he murmurs, running a gloved thumb across Keith’s lips. 

Keith doesn’t know if it’s approving or not, but doesn’t have time to think—Shiro’s other hand is still on his thigh, but is moving, ever so slowly to give Keith a little squeeze when the car purrs to a stop. 

“We’re here, sir,” the driver announces.

Reluctantly, Shiro moves his hand away, and moves to get out. Keith stays, prolonging the seconds as best he can, up until his side opens and a hand comes through, beckoning. 

“Come here,” Shiro says, and Keith reluctantly steps outside.

* * *

Shiro hasn’t closed the curtains, so the moonlight streams from the windows, painting the grounds outside silver. But inside, shadows hide enough of Shiro’s face, his hands, to make Keith wary. 

Keith’s hair is loose, the neat part mussed from the day and the drive back. Shiro touches it, threads it between his fingers—now ungloved, peeling off the white, sleek fabric finger by finger and testing them on the nightstand—before cupping Keith’s face in his hands. There’s another kiss—this time, demanding, impatient, hungry. 

He tries to figure out what to do—respond, stiffen, protest? But Shiro’s hands are on him, popping open his jacket with a carefless flick, and sliding it from his shoulders. It drops to the floor, pooling around the back of Keith’s ankles; without thinking, he kicks it, happy to at least hit _something_. 

It seems to satisfy Shiro, enough for him to say, “Undress for me.” 

All he wants to do is get this over with, so Keith puts his fingers to work, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, then fumbling with his belt to roughly yank the leather outwards. He toes out of his shoes, practically kicking them to the side again, then unbuttons his pants, shucking them off like it’s after another long day of work, then his underwear, standing before Shiro and trying not to fold his arms. 

Shiro doesn’t move; he only looks at Keith. His eyes, his collarbone, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, his feet—for what seems like forever, drinking him in.

Keith stands as rigid as a soldier, hands at his sides, fighting not clench them into fists. His chin is lifted, trying to preserve as much dignity as he can.

Shiro reaches forward again, tracing his hips with the tips of his fingers. Keith was right; his hand is cold, and as unyielding as armor against his bare flesh. He wonders if Shiro will hurt him with it; he’s heard the stories from the battlefield—of brutality, of bloodlust, of _the Champion._ How he’d come out of the war without a hand but alive in the way tigers—he hears—are after they’ve been shot, more dangerous than ever. 

His brothers had died, though; Keith had felt pity for Shiro, once, for that. But he suspects they won’t bond over dead relatives, or even talk about them. That’s fine, because he’s the only one in this—arrangement that should know about his dad. He has that, at least.

“On the bed,” Shiro says. 

Keith sits on the edge, feet dangling, unsure. 

He waits for Shiro to tell him to move on his stomach, or simply lay back, but Shiro does none of those things. Instead, he begins to undress—not quickly, like Keith, but slowly and leisurely. His jacket’s pulled off, laid aside on a chair, then his shirt, buttons carefully but skillfully slipped out of their holes as easily as gutting a fish. He lays that, too, on the chair; his stomach and chest are carved with scars, and Keith doesn’t dare look away, for fear of offense, but tries not to stare, too. There are sure bullet marks, along with slashes, some looking more calculated than others, twisted like ivy. Some look like burns, scorched dark red against pale skin—painful looking even after being healed. The moonlight makes them more pronounced. 

But instead of unfastening his pants, Shiro strides forward, takes him by the shoulders and gently maneuvers him down, down on the plush mattress and quilts. He feels his legs being pushed up and apart, sprawled in midair, and feels a hot flush on his face and neck, imagining what he looks like, especially when Shiro grabs a pillow and raises his hips further, propping them up. 

And then, Shiro circles him with his tongue, prodding, tasting, exploring. He traces the dip of Keith’s stomach, slowly, then slides the other hand up his spine when he arches, toes curling, unable to help himself. He never knew his body could betray him like this, come apart when Shiro touches him—and he’s done this before. He might have held out in proper society, but in war, Keith thinks, you grabbed life with both hands, uncaring of such things like morals and scruples. 

It’s like a battle—no, planning one. Testing, if that’s possible. He maps out Keith’s body, eyes intent and narrowed, learning, when Keith squirms or draws in a breath or kicks outwards. With his thumb and finger, he pinches a nipple, circles it, kneads the other with an almost absentminded hand. He teases, allowing them to stiffen into hardened, sensitive peaks, as his mouth works on Keith, pressing and curious, again and again. 

There’s a pause when Shiro moves back, just as Keith’s toes begin to curl, and there’s the smile again, impish, with a hint of triumph. And a fumble in the nightstand, a sharp click, then a wet finger pressing into him, angling, buried to the first knuckle. 

Keith gasps, legs still splayed open, too open, as Shiro plays with him, sliding in and out, adding another finger, and tasting again, too. The stretch burns, especially with the thickness of the metal, bigger than anything Keith’s allowed to touch him, and cold, too, though surely warming, little by little. 

And when Shiro slides in at last, to the hilt, Keith gasps again, as if he’s been shocked awake by icy water. 

At the sound, Shiro buries his face in Keith’s neck, nuzzling. “God, I want you,” he murmurs. 

Teeth clenched, Keith lays back when Shiro moves in him, breaching him over and over like a castle wall, rougher and more animalistic than the controlled man who steadily and patiently opened him up. 

His teeth catch on Keith’s neck, gasps and grunts muffled, hands moving Keith at his will. They’re _strong_ ; his flesh one is callous-hard and his prosthetic is perfectly smooth, but together, they push Keith down further and further into the bed, then raise him up, cresting and falling.

When it’s over, Keith feels wrung out, like a dishrag tossed to the side, but Shiro strokes his arm, suddenly tender and affectionate. “I couldn’t stop looking at you since we first met,” he murmurs. “Now…” 

Keith lays still. What does this mean for him? He still doesn’t know this man, if he’s cruel or kind or neither. His body aches, stickiness clinging to his thighs. He wonders if there’s blood. 

Shiro falls asleep fairly quickly. For the longest time, his arm is heavy across Keith’s side, leaving a mark that he’ll stare at in the morning, an imprint of Shiro on his body. 

When the arm is removed, Keith shivers in relief. His hand reaches over the edge of the bed, still pale by moonlight, and pulls the curtains closed. 


End file.
